


Crime and Punishment

by ecrituredudesir



Category: Furry (Fandom), Furry - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Castration, Death, Dismemberment, Other, Snuff, Stabbing, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 01:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16295438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecrituredudesir/pseuds/ecrituredudesir
Summary: (A commission for someone on furaffinity)Frank has been a police officer for the last twenty years, and he has never regretted bringing in a criminal--until three wolves break into his home one night, and make him pay for one of their own.





	Crime and Punishment

The evening had started off normally; his son, Randall, was back from his first semester of college for the weekend, and they had shared a dinner of his favorite pasta to celebrate him getting his first test scores back. Frank, a middle aged raccoon whose stripes were starting to show signs of gray, couldn’t be prouder of the young man; unlike his dad, his son had a promising future ahead of him in law, whereas his father had spent the last twenty-five years on the grind in the police force. There had been several moments when he was proud of his job—getting criminals off of the streets and making the city safer, so overall, he didn’t hate it: he just wanted more for his son than he had had in life.   
  
Still, he enjoyed the leisurely time that his day shifts afforded him—considering it meant that he got to have the afternoons and nights off whenever his son was able to break away from his studies to come home for a visit. He’d spent an hour preparing a meal with his boy, and they were just settling down to the meal when they heard an odd crash coming from the living room. It had been the shattering of glass—like something falling off of a shelf, or a window shattering, but both of them were up in a heartbeat, with the raccoon regretting the fact that the only gun they had in the house was safe and secured in his bedside table, and his service pistol was on the bed from where he’d taken it off.   
  
“Stay here,” he warned his son, though to their surprise, they heard a knock on the door.   
  
The father moved slowly to the living room, only to hear a soft, husky voice calling from the other side of the door. “Hello? I think my son might have broken your window with his baseball, I want to talk to you about getting it fixed.”  
  
Relief washes over him, momentarily. Of course, it had been an accident, he reassured himself, moving to unlatch the lock on the door. The minute the chain was undone and the door opened, however, he was struck with the force of someone slamming it inward and into his face, dazing him from the force of the blow. He was stunned momentarily, and as he staggered back, he saw the looming figure of a wolf in the doorway—a wolf that stepped forward to slam his knuckles into the raccoon’s jaw, knocking him fully to his ass this time. Before he could call out to let his son know to run or hide to escape, he felt a sharp kick to the face, silencing him as he felt his teeth bite against his lip from the impact. Two more wolves rushed in, while the first one grabbed him and forced him onto his belly, zip tying his hands behind his back. Despite his noises of protest, there was no success with managing to push the wolf off. His hands were tied behind his back, and then his ankles zip tied to this wrists, keeping him completely immobile—any movement dug the sharp edges of the plastic into his fur and skin, leaving him ultimately useless in his attempts to move and flail. He’d gotten in a nasty kick to the wolf’s shoulder who had tied him, making the other snarl and yank his tail so forcefully that he felt the muscle sprain at the base.  
  
What came next, however, was worse than any tail sprain. Randall was forced in, staggering with his hands gripped behind him and another wolf leading him. The last wolf of the trio brought up the back of the group, with one of the kitchen dinner tables in hand. The first wolf lifted Frank enough to drop him on the couch—facing outwards as the attacker moved the living room table out of the way. Afterwards, the third wolf set the chair in the middle of the room, and the second tied Randall’s arms to it, one for each sprung of wood up the side to the back of the chair, then the raccoon’s legs to the two front legs of the chair.   
  
“Let him go, you bastards!” Frank snapped, fear starting to leak into his chest. They were setting up some kind of display for him. Randall had been gagged for now, but it was with a clumsy piece of rope that didn’t look like it’d hold up long.  
  
The first wolf scoffed, and looked to his third partner. “Go get whatever tools he keeps in the shed out back.” The other nodded, rushing off to the back door as commanded. After he sent the other off, the wolf looked back to Frank. “So, I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Two years ago, you busted one of my best guys out on the corner of sixth and third.”   
  
Frank ‘busted’ a lot of people. It was his job—and try as he might, he couldn’t remember picking up anyone who looked like the three wolves who had invaded his home. His gaze, guarded, narrows, but before he could question it, the wolf continued:   
  
“Thing is, he got sent in—ten years into a prison where I ain’t got any friends. And where I ain’t got friends, I got enemies.” The wolf snarled slowly. “They ripped him apart in his cell a week ago, and you, Officer Buddy Boy, are gonna pay me for his pound of flesh.” He turned his gaze back to Randall, and Frank immediately knew what he was planning. Before he could scream or protest, or make any sort of noise that would alert the neighbors of what was happening, the second wolf moved in and shoved a strip of foul-smelling fabric in his mouth, before tying off another, tighter gag on him.   
  
In the time it took for the first wolf to explain his intentions and for the second wolf to secure him, the third one had already dug through the shed in the back yard and had brought them back in an old wooden box that Frank used for carrying around spare parts in. He had a fiendish look in his gaze, and Frank couldn’t tell if it was because he knew what was to come, or if he was one of the ones who had helped plan it. They all seemed malicious, and the first one finally moved away from where they’d tossed Frank onto the couch to start to dig through the box. The coffee table hadn’t been pushed too far away, and the wolf had the others bring it back close so he could start to lay the tools out, one by one. His saw. A set of screwdrivers. Hedge clippers. A hammer—with long wood nails that he’d planned on using to build a table for Randall’s dorm room in the coming summer, since Randall complained there wasn’t any good shelving in his dorm.   
  
It was slowly starting to dawn on the cop how serious they were.   
  
His struggling increased in vehemence as he watched the wolf drag one teasing claw across his son’s jaw, not enough to draw blood, but more than enough to make his son whimper in fear against his gag. “I hear they mutilated my boy in jail,” the wolf started, drawing a noise of protest from Frank. “Some bastard even bit off his fuckin’ ear?” The wolf continued, speaking loudly and clearly over the protest of both father and son, though in annoyance, he finally pulled back and slammed the back of his palm across Randall’s face to shut him up. He left him stunned with his ears ringing, but their constant, muffled noises was starting to grind on his nerves. Jaw clenched, he reached out to take the hedge clippers, getting the other wolf to hold the raccoon in place. Frank nearly shouted against his gag, getting out as much noise as he could on the off prayer that someone would find them and save his son, but the third wolf grabbed his head and made him watch on as the first brought the long blades of the hedge clippers up. In one fell, swift motion, the dull blades clipped against one of the soft, rounded ear. The blades weren’t sharp enough to make a clean cut, so even though the younger raccoon screamed against the gag, his ear wasn’t fully severed; the muscles connected to it twitched madly, making the half-severed ear flop pathetically against his head, only making the nerves connected to it scream in more agony. Tears of pain were welling on reflex in his son’s eyes, and Randall could only give his father one tragic, pleading look—as if praying for the older raccoon to do something, for his father to rescue him.  
  
Frank felt his heart breaking in his chest as one of the wolves cackled and reached forward, gripping the loose flap of his son’s ear and then yanking his ear back so roughly that the already severed skin ripped, pulling the appendage clean off and severing his ear completely. Frank could see the whites of Randall’s eyes as they widened in shock, a scream barely muffled by the clumsy gag in his mouth. The wolf hummed in amused delight, rubbing the not-quite-leathery strip of flesh and cartilage in between his fingers, marveling at the supple softness that the younger raccoon’s ear boasted. His amusement was soon gone though, distracted in passing by the whimpering, sobbing tears of the raccoon who was now bleeding freely from the stump of what had been his ear, the thick, red fluid matting dark against his fur.   
  
He reached back, and backhanded the youth once more, causing another choked sob to ring muffled from the gag. The wolf’s gaze returned only momentarily to the father laying on the couch. The fight had started to leave his eyes, replaced with a cold, dreadful terror. He was realizing that there was nothing he could do, and that he was going to have to watch the wolves torture his child in front of him until they were bored or caught. With the way things were going, the first would not happen soon, and the second would not happen at all. As much as Frank could vow to himself that he would avenge this egregious wrong done to his son, the wolf behind him wasn’t going to let him plot his vengeance.   
  
“This is your fault, you know,” the second wolf growled. “If you didn’t paint such a big ass target on your back by bringing our boy in, your son would have been safe.”  
  
Frank’s protest behind the gag is weak, because he knows that the wolf is right, and that it’s his fault that his son has been mutilated. Before he can react, before he can shoot a glare at the wolf for taunting him, he sees the flash of the red handles of the hedge clippers rise again, and his gaze tears back to where it’s lifted again to Randall’s remaining ear. It’s possible to hear the sounds of pleading, of desperation behind the younger raccoon’s gag, near-blinded in one eye from the blood that was flowing freely down through the soft browns of his fur. Like any head wound, it bled freely and excessively, and it kept him from seeing the approach of the clippers from the other side until he’d already felt the cold metal at his other ear.   
  
The sound on the other end of the gag sounded like it might have been begging for mercy, as if he might have been starting to say ‘no,’ but then the wolf’s biceps flexed and his knuckles squeezed tight around the handles of the clippers. This time they went clean through the second ear, severing it in one cleaner, but no less painful cut.   
  
Randall could feel the blood flood his ear canals. While the butchered hatch job of his other ear had the pulse of his blood flooding over the flopped stump, over the back of his head and his face. The second ear had been cut closer to the skull, and it left much more blood to dribble into his earhole directly. Suddenly it was like listening to everything through a muffle with that ear, but at the same time, the wolf scoffed as he looked on, judging the new trim-and-cut. “Let’s even that out, why don’t we?” The raccoon heard him muffled on one side, but his ear was ringing with pain in the other, so he was left to only give a confused, dazed stare at the one grinning at him with every sharp tooth on display.   
  
Then he handed the clippers over to the wolf behind him, making Randall think that it was finally over—that he would cease the brutality against his body. Instead, the second wolf just lifted the clippers once more, and dug them straight into the ear canal bearing the extra, tattered skin of what remained of his ear, and pushed it _deep_. The raccoon yelped against the point of the blade carving up the inside of his ear, rupturing his eardrum and flooding that canal under the thick flood of slimy blood as well. Once it was deep enough, the wolf closed the blades of the hedge trimmers down again, this time cutting the cartilage of the ear completely away from the bone, leaving an open, gaping, bleeding hole where the ear had once been. It was still uneven, but a little less noticeably so, and thus the tormentors saw fit to leave that as the extent of his facial mutilation, by now.   
  
With the force of cutting motions that it took to sever the cartilage, the blade finally snapped, leaving part of the metal clippers firmly imbedded in what was left of his ear canal. With his fur matted and torn around it, the blade had become lodged in the very flesh there, and the wolves were quickly getting distracted with what other goodies the box had to offer.   
  
“Their tails are weird,” observed the second wolf who had stopped to observe the tail before, but now he slowly lifted the soft, fluffy striped appendage to give it a better look. After a pause, he looks up to the others. “I want it.”  
  
Frank gives a small shout against the gag, a renewed vigor flooding through him as he struggles not to vomit against the cloth restraints as he looks to his son’s mutilated and bloody visage. Hearing the ‘I want it’ fills him with dread at the mixed meanings of it, and he fights against the bindings. There’s no give, though—the zip ties weren’t giving way, and they were only digging deep into his flesh, cutting at the skin under his fur and stripping the fur away from the flesh from snatches of it getting caught against the sharp edges. His eyes shot, bulging from their sockets, to the clippers that had been set aside on the table. In the process, he missed the wolf reaching for the other box again. It was the rattle of metal against metal tools that caught his attention, his gaze snapping over to the box, which had been moved just out of Randall’s gaze. Randall, with his head throbbing and barely comprehending what was happening through the pain, watched as his father choked in horror.  
  
The second wolf had pulled out an old, rusty saw from the toolbox, and was brandishing it with interest. It wasn’t sharp enough to make a clean cut, but that was the worst of it, and the foolish thought rose to the back of Frank’s mind that he had been meaning to replace those tools for a while. They were dangerous and old and he’d joked with Randall about getting him some new tools for Christmas. He wished now he’d done it himself, because the age of the ones they were using to torture his child were just making the process much, much more painful.   
  
His gaze flicked up to meet Randall’s, and the most painful thing that plagues him in that moment isn’t the ache of the zip ties at his wrists, or the ache of the welting bruises from the blows used to stun him. What hurts the most is the pure pain in his child’s eyes, the pleading desperation that came from wanting his father to save him, and Frank being powerless to do so. One ear had such egregious nerve damage that it was twitching now, as if trying to flick away from unimportant fly away from the scent of blood, but there was no ear to flick it away, and the fly is only the phantom limb of what had once been his flesh and blood.  
  
“Get those pants off,” the first wolf commanded quickly enough, knowing that he had enough plans for later that it’d just be easier to discard the raccoon of the lower garments ahead of time. A pocket knife was produced rather than any of the other tools in the box presented to them, and the wolf moved to start at his pants legs, dragging the sharp blade up through the fabric of his pants leg. The wolf didn’t seem to care at all when the tip of the blade drug through the thickness of the fur, puncturing the skin with the roughness of the tip of the blade. Once a good cut was started, the wolf was able to rip up the rest of the fabric, though he had to bring the scissors in again at the front of his pants, digging against his stomach and taking a good slip of flesh out of his navel. The raccoon whimpered again, feeling the sliver of skin cut through in the dip of his belly button, but his heart skipped a beat when he felt the sharp edge of the blade barely skim against the sheath of his cock, threatening to take a slice out of that. His heart is pounding from the near-miss, and he feels a brief rush of gratitude for that lack of pain, despite his humiliation at having the fabric of his pants ripped away.    
  
The relief is short lived, because Randall couldn’t possibly expect the touch of warped, rusted steel with how clogged his ears were of blood, too deafened to hear the clang of metal in the box or the wolf’s desire for his tail. He could, however, feel it when the wolf gripped the soft, patterned fur of said tail, stretching it out and pulling it tight. He whimpered, weak from pain, against the gag still planted firmly in his mouth, his nose running from the agony in his nerves. It made it hard to breathe, so each sniffling breath escaped as a snotty wheeze. Then he felt the press of the old saw blade to the base of his tail, flush with his bottom, testing the pressure that would be needed to break the skin and sever the bone. He gave a weak groan, shaking his head in desperate protest, but the only thing that it accomplished is slinging a few drops of blood side to side to soak into the carpet at an angle, instead of the pool that was dripping from his head and making a puddle under the chair he was strapped to.  
  
The third wolf popped him in the blade protruding from his ear , making the sharp edge ache and ring out with pain, like a tuning fork struck and left to vibrate agony. It quietened his struggling and anguished noises for the next few seconds, unable to do much more than wheeze through the pain before he felt the first long drag of the toothed saw start to cut through his tail. His eyes nearly rolled, unable to endure the pain as he briefly saw black—but right as he was on the verge of passing out from the pain, the ringleader of the trio popped him in the mouth with the back of his hand, shocking him to consciousness right in time for him to feel the serrated teeth of the rusted blade make a nasty, scraping contact with one of the bones in his tail.   
  
Randall remembered walking past the butcher in a grocery store once, watching as the man drove a powerful bone saw through the meaty bone of a rib-eye steak. He was reminded of that sound, of that grinding metal-on-bone that he could feel vibrating completely through his tail and up his spine from where the saw was digging in. Dazed, he took a moment to realize the crunching sound he was _feeling_ was accompanied by a pain that shot up through his spine and throbbed through the very cerebral cortex from the nerve damage of having part of his spine cut _through._ He could feel the phantom sensation of his tail trying desperately to sway and move away, but the only thing still connected was the badly damaged muscle at the bottom of the tail, which was the only slip of bloody, thick flesh that kept his tail connected to his bottom.   
  
It made the appendage twitch pathetically a few times, as if there was some last minute effort that would save it from complete severance, though it was only a pause in the wolf’s efforts to rest his hand; it was difficult to saw through both muscle and bone, much less cope with the way the blood spilled down the fur and saw, making it hard to grip both. Frustrated with the lack of traction with the saw, the wolf tossed it aside and gripped close to the base of the mostly severed tail, yanking it back with a forceful pull. The flesh, weakened from the rusted, ragged cuts, started to strip away from the pulp under the damaged stump of where most of his tail had once been. It pulled off in a long, extra strip of bloody, matted fur that ripped into the skin from the butchered stub of tail all the way to the young man’s anus.     
  
Randall was screaming against the gag all over again, the raw, bloody flesh left to flood droplets of blood down his ass and to pool behind the chair to slowly start to connect to the pools that had started to spread from the damage done to his ears. Frank cursed bitterly against the gag as he watched the wolf hold up his son’s tail, coated with blood and with an extra strip of flesh hanging down, still dripping blood. Whether it was the nerves and muscle lingering and trying to fire off to a brain they were no longer connected to, he could see the faint twitch and sway of the tail in the wolf’s hand before the movements stopped completely. He knew even if they managed to escape right then and there, his son would never have a normal quality of life again.   
  
Still, the wolves seemed to be far from done with their open torture, with the one that had dismembered him moving to tuck the tail into his belt like a small game hunt prize, tucked away and left at his hip to be forgotten until he needed to clean it up and make a trophy of it later. The stumpy protrusion of bone and muscle left at the base of Randall’s tail flicked like it had been docked, but in a much more gruesome manner. It was spurting blood still, given no place to go like his ears had back flooded into his ear canals, so the stain on the carpet was much bigger. Still, they were not satisfied with the suffering that they had caused thus far.  They were far from finished, and the first wolf gave a snarky glance up to meet Frank’s gaze once more. The raccoon wasn’t quite sure how much worse they could torment him via torturing his son, but he was sure with that dedicated, wolfish smirk that rose to that monster’s lips, he was about to find out.  
  
“So, big papa,” the wolf addressed him with a startlingly smooth grin rising to show all of his sharp teeth. They glinted in the light like daggers, and Frank was sure they were just as deadly as any tool he had used to hurt his child thus far. “You wanna be a grandpappy one day?” He questioned looking from Frank back down to the pantsless, wounded raccoon sitting exposed in the chair. “You think your ugly ass son is gonna be able to get with anyone to give you those grandkids? … You know what, there’s always a pity case. Why don’t we make sure you never get the pleasure of that, either?” He questioned, leaning over the box as he dug through, finding a flat, sharp paint scraper that Frank had forgotten that he even owned. After a moment, the wolf gestured over to his two partners, then to the younger raccoon’s legs.   
  
“Hold ‘em open for me.”   
  
Randall was too dazed with his pain to understand what was going on when the two partners moved to pull his legs apart, spreading them wide. The first wolf reached forward and grasped his ballsack, pulling it forward to lay heavily against the front of the chair. Next, the wolf fished out a hammer, despite hearing the shuffling of fabric against fabric behind him as the father raccoon gave one last ditch effort to fight against his bindings. It as a useless attempt as the others had been, and despite Randall’s attempts to pull backwards and scoot away on the chair, the other to wolves held him firmly in place by keeping his legs spread and pinned against the chair he as tied to.   
  
Randall felt the pressure of the bladed edge of the paint scraper press into the soft skin of his sack against the base of his cock, right where his sack hung below his sheath. With one hand wrapped completely around the handle, and the other lifting the mallet, Randall could only give an uncertain, confused gaze the wolf’s way, as if he was too dazed from bloodloss to properly understand what he was doing. He had no clue what was happening, the trauma already thick in his blood stream more than enough to help him lower his guard against what the wolves were capable of, whether it was helplessness against it, or a prayer that it would be over soon.  
  
The hammer drove down, soundly smacking against the handle of the tool, giving it enough momentum and leverage  to cut into the first few inches of steel into the vulnerable, soft flesh. With the new surge of pain, far greater than anything that he’d felt in the last several minutes of his torture, Randall screamed so fiercely against his gag that his head tilted back and the gag fell from his maw, echoing the noise throughout the household. The sound was shrill, and could only be made by someone who as experiencing such a severe trauma to his genitals. The first wolf growled lowly, snarling to the third to get something to _shut him up¸_ and in a rushed little panic, the third wolf dug his claws deep into the raccoon’s mouth to dig them against his tongue, piercing the soft muscle before pulling sharply outwards. The effect was immediate, leaving Randall’s tongue in tatters as he tried not to choke on the flood of blood that was now leaking down the back of his throat. With another firm slam of the hammer down against the handle of the paint scraper, the edge of metal severed his ball sack, sending it rolling to the floor right where Frank could see it. A bloody clump of fur and gore, he knew that the wolf had been serious about ever taking the joy of grand children away from him—and the joy of children for his son. Exhausted from his struggles, and a broken man at seeing his son tormented so, he dragged his gaze, horrified and broken, up to where his son’s tongue was hanging from his mouth in ribbons. He could scream no longer, barely able to open his mouth as he tried to keep the blood from pouring down his throat and drowning him. Seeing the effect that they had had on both of the raccoons, the wolf leading the trio finally gave a proud, haughty smirk as he drew a pocket knife from his back pocket and moved behind the younger raccoon, pulling his blade back to stab it into Randall’s gut.  
  
Frank, who had somehow hoped that his son would manage to recover from this ordeal, gave a low groan of anguish. He saw the steel blade disappear into his son’s torso, who could only whimper as it sent shocks of pain through him. The wolf pulled back the pocket knife again, ramming it once more, then again, then again into his chest cavity.  Each time the blade sank into him, it drew more blood, and finally the wolf had stabbed him enough times to make the pin-cushion, shredded insides inside of his belly squelch with each damaging blow. Randal’s body shook from the force of the blows alone, and before long, the life had left his eyes. The visceral treatment of his lifeless form was performative alone, leaving no room for Frank to hope that his son could survive the onslaught. Ten minutes of the blade puncturing skin and fur over and over again passed, until the blows finally stopped, and Randall slumped over in his chair, dead.   
  
“Knock him out. That’ll send the message to any other punk bitch cops in the area to stay offa our guys,” the wolf instructed to one of the others, and Frank could only look up to the one that approached with a soulless, crushed glance before a fist connected to his temple, knocking him out and leaving him with the only solace he would have from his grief for the next coming weeks: the pitch black of unconsciousness.


End file.
